


Nemoralia

by nokkosnoita



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokkosnoita/pseuds/nokkosnoita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diana of sacred woods runs into the river, shouting out his pagan joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nemoralia

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Nemoralia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656168) by [nokkosnoita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokkosnoita/pseuds/nokkosnoita). 



> This is a translation of an old ficlet of mine, apparently I never posted this version here. I don't usually write fic in English, and I'm not sure what prompted me to try this time but here it is ~ feel free to tell me if there's something off (linguistically... other things off may remain).

Half moon. On the fifteenth, we've set up a fire on the shore.

Diana of sacred woods runs into the river, shouting out his pagan joy. Peter and James are watching over us from their heights, until one of them falls off the tree. Cannot see which one, but there's a splash.

Goddess rises from the water in the form of an animal, shakes himself, morphs, and with water ferns in his hair he tells:

"Into the water, you! The fire will be alright."

"Hm-m."

"You're doing it again, smirking at something we don't know. It is _annoying_ – "

Annoying is a wet breath against my ear, feverish and reproachful. Enclosing the torrid month of August, smell of onions, this moment of twilight and an entire summer. This summer – ah, this summer, the goddesses have been favourable to us. I try and steal a covert glance towards the river, but my mind is read and hands travel from my shoulders to my sides. There’s a hush of breath on my temple.

"They won't see."

Of course they will.

I turn around in wet, slippery arms and run my fingers in the hair. The plants are thrown into the fire, they vanish with a soft hiss and soot makes our eyes sting. Feet make furrows in the grass as we dance away. Three steps upwind, across the path, four steps to the side, to flee from the gaze.

Music is drifting from the house. On the porch, Mrs. Potter is peeling onions and draining beetroots of their blood. She's tying and knotting and immersing her fabrics into the juices of sacrificed roots, and the wizard of the house is playing the lute for his witch of a litster. Painted clothes flowing in the trees, and the lanterns are lit.

Some hassle going on at the water's edge, but we're slinking into the shadows. Smells of river and smoke on our skins.


End file.
